


All the taels of foreign gold

by orphan



Series: A Handful of Dirt [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Demon True Forms, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 19:28:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16181657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan/pseuds/orphan
Summary: The day after history changes, Bobby wakes up slow.





	All the taels of foreign gold

**Author's Note:**

> I'd always had the idea of writing a version of "A handful of dirt" but, like, Bobby's POV. This is that. Kinda...
> 
> _Oh where do we begin?_  
>  _The[rubble or our sins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F90Cw4l-8NY)?_

_If you want to have a future, don't do anything with no future in it._

— Wu Cheng'en, _Xi you ji_ ( _Journey to the West_ )

The day after history changes, Bobby wakes up slow. It's still strange, not to be jolted awake by the ache in his knee or his back or his bladder or one of the other ten thousand little indignities of old age. His body is still a body—not the sort of hazy, disassociated presence he'd had in Heaven, or at least what he remembers of it—but it’s warm and it’s comfortable, despite the misshapen lumps of the hastily assembled armchairs acting as a bed beneath it.

There’s a weight across Bobby’s shoulders. Heavy and _big_ , but not crushing. Behind him, he can hear soft snoring like the rumble of a distant earthquake, and the hairs on his neck ripple with gusts of breath like a geyser’s sulfurous backdraft.

Slowly, Bobby opens his eyes.

There’s . . . a claw. In front of him, inches from his face. It’s about the size of Bobby’s whole torso, curled loosely against the couch cushions, heavy black nails turned slightly towards him. The skin is grey, and leathery, with thick scutes in dark charcoal across the joints and knuckles. Bobby reaches out to, very gently, trace the thumb. It’s warm, like the stones around a hearth fire. Strangely alive, given the creature that owns it is, technically speaking, dead. Sort of.

Crowley. Jesus.

Bobby knows he’s seen demons, true-form demons, before. He know he’s probably even seen _Crowley_ like that. But Bobby’s memories from his time in Hell are . . . hazy. Barely there blurred impressions of heat and vastness and despair. Nothing concrete, nothing his waking mind can grasp. He doesn’t know whether that’s normal or it’s the influence of Heaven or it’s something different again. He doesn’t know if there’s a single other being in creation with whom he’d be able to compare experiences.

Well. Maybe one. But he’s trying not to think about that. Morningstar nothing; no-one should ever have to think about Lucifer before breakfast. Or, better yet, ever.

Bobby sighs, just one single long-suffering huff of breath, and decides he should probably get up.

He doesn’t want to. It’s warm here, for one, and it’s too late in the year for that to last long outside the immediate circle of blankets, Crowley radiating Hellfire or no.

He’s . . . bigger. Than Bobby was expecting. Crowley, that is. And the crab legs and the second mouth are . . . something. Definitely something.

Bobby rolls over.

Crowley is definitely asleep, which Bobby supposes answers _that_ particular little metaphysical question.

He’d suspected, after . . . after “Rick.” But a demon sleeping in a meatsuit was different . . . wasn’t it? Maybe not. Or is Crowley’s status less “asleep” and more “unconscious?” He’d been banged up pretty bad by Azazael. Bobby hadn’t been sure . . .

Well. No point worrying about that, now.

The four eyes are a bit . . . strange. Particularly the upper two, angled inwards and down, like the rays of a strange half-sunburst. Crowley doesn’t have lips like this, either; just raw, glowing gums and jagged fangs. Crowley’s mouth runs horizontal, but the slit in his skin goes up and down as well as across, and the end result is somehow bat-like, even though he looks nothing like any bat that ever flew on Earth.

He isn’t human-looking enough to be ugly, Bobby eventually decides. Alien and strange, yes. But there’s a kind of . . . symmetry to his features. And it’s . . . okay. Not ugly. Very consciously, Bobby decides not to examine it further than that.

Extracting himself from beneath Crowley’s arm involves pushing the armchair away with his feet, then wriggling out in the gap between it and the sofa. The move isn’t exactly elegant, but it works; Crowley doing nothing more than huffing and curling slightly against Bobby’s newly vacated pillow. The move is endearingly human. Bobby tries not to think much about that, either.

Instead, he wraps the blanket around his shoulders—it is exactly as ball-liftingly cold as he’d imagined—and tries not to trip over Juliet in the den’s early morning gloom.

He can’t see the hellhound, not exactly. Not with his eyes. But he _knows_ she’s there, curled on the floor next to her master, and he even knows she’s awake; red eyes watching Bobby as he moves around the room.

He scratches her behind the ears as he passes. He wouldn’t say he’s _pleased_ , exactly, that Crowley sent her, but she’s proven loyal to Sam and Bobby can respect that, if nothing else.

It’s about then Bobby notices Dean.

The kid—and, Jesus, Bobby still ain’t used to that, either—is sitting in the hall, eyes fixed on Crowley and fingers white-knuckled around a shotgun. Salt rounds, Bobby’d be betting, but at least it’s not the Colt; Bobby locked that up in the safe, the one the boys don’t even know about, before going to bed.

Dean’s face is pale and drawn, his eyes bloodshot and sunken like he’s been holding vigil all night, sclera visible the whole way round as he watches Bobby approach. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but Bobby cuts him off with a gesture, and Dean’s mouth closes so fast his teeth click.

_Gun,_ Bobby mouths, holding out a hand. He puts every inch of patriarchal disapproval into it that he can. A low blow, maybe, but he’s got an injured demon-king asleep on his broken sofa, and he _knows_ Rick ain’t much of a morning person, even at the best of times.

Reluctantly, Dean stands, and hands over the gun. His eyes flick between Bobby and the sofa the whole time.

_Kitchen,_ Bobby mouths, once he’s broken open the shotgun and pulled out the shells. Salt and silver, like he figured. It won't kill Crowley but it'd be a hell of a wake-up call.

Dean doesn’t argue, at least not until they’re both away from the den. Then it’s:

“That thing! We have to—”

“No.” Bobby won’t lie; he’s come close, over the last few months. More than once, and none closer than the day Sam was taken. But he hadn’t, then. He doesn’t really know why. Or . . . maybe thinking that’s just easier than acknowledging the alternative. Either way, Crowley had gotten Sam back. And then, in the chapel with Azazel . . .

Bobby should be dead, he knows that. Skewered on the end of Azazel’s . . . whatever. Except he’s not, and it’s Crowley with a gut-full of stitches, instead. A gut full of stitches and, turns out, a story not dissimilar to Bobby’s own.

Funny, the way things go.

“It’s a _demon_ ,” Dean is saying. “It’s . . . it’s evil! We have to—”

“Rick is Rick,” Bobby says, before he’s really thought about it. “He ain’t—” _Evil,_ he doesn’t say, because he isn’t sure that’s true. Rick is Rick and Rick is Crowley, who’s . . . “Complicated. It’s complicated.”

Dean says nothing, lips pressed tightly like he’s biting back his words, and Bobby sighs. He turns, putting the broken-open gun on the table. “How ‘bout I make breakfast,” he says. “We can talk—”

It’s about then the holy water hits him. It’s _cold_ , running down the back of his neck and soaking his hair. He supposes he should’ve been expecting that.

“Dean!”

“It . . . it’s done something to you!”

_It’s done more than “something,”_ Bobby doesn’t say, because while no version of Dean would _want_ to hear that, this one is also far too young for the innuendo.

“I ain’t . . . bespelled,” he says instead. “Like I said, it’s complicated. But Rick . . . Dean, I always knew what he was. And I know more about him than I’ve told you. Me ’n’ him, we’ve got . . . history.” It isn’t quite the right word, temporally speaking, but it’ll have to do. “And, yeah. He’s a selfish, vicious, black-hearted bastard and a lord’a Hell to boot, but . . . but he saved my life. And he’ll help us. With Sam.”

Dean’s eyes narrow, every inch the stubborn teenager. “With _Lucifer_ , you mean.”

Bobby hisses, hoping Sam is still asleep. “Him, too. Rick hates the bastard, and he’s got good reason.” More than one, even.

“He’s a _demon_ ,” Dean repeats, like this explains everything. In a sane world, maybe it would.

There’s tea towel by the sink, and Bobby uses it to dry himself. “And Luce ain’t,” he says. “And Crowley— Rick, apparently he’s the only one of those dumb sonsovbitches who worked that out.”

“It’s cause he fucks you, ain’t it?”

Bobby . . . doesn’t hit him. He swore to himself, years back, shovel in hand, that he’d never be . . . that. And he ain’t. But, God help him, sometimes it’s hard.

The air in the room is suddenly still and cold in a way that has nothing to do with the weather. Dean senses it too, taking a step back, knowing he’s pushed too far. Because Bobby might not be . . . that, but he knows John can be.

“Enough. Get outta my sight, boy,” Bobby says, voice as calm and deadly as a fresh-frozen lake. “And if you so much as scuff one’a Rick’s horns . . .” He lets the threat hang, mostly because he doesn’t know what he’d do. He’s hoping he won’t have to find out.

“Y-yes, sir,” Dean says.

Bobby watches him leave. Upstairs, so . . . good. It’ll do, for now. Until Bobby can . . . something. He’ll think of something.

He waits until he can no longer hear any sound bar the dim echo of Crowley’s snoring. Then he leans over the sink, bites his knuckles hard enough to leave marks, and screams silently into the dawn.

* * *

There's a tape. An old VHS, or not so old, Bobby supposes, given the year. It'd been waiting for him, when he'd . . . woken up. He's watched it exactly once, and considered destroying it more often than that. He's showed it to no one else, though that might change. Maybe. He’ll think about it.

The tape’s currently in the secret safe, next to the Colt. The label, written in handwriting Bobby doesn't recognize, reads:

_HIGHLIGHTS_   
_seasons 8 - 12_

The tape is the reason Crowley’s still alive. There's only one being Bobby can think of who would've left it. Just a hunch—a hope, maybe—but one Crowley had confirmed himself, last night.

And Bobby . . . he was never much for religion; he's read too much, seen to much, for that. So he doesn't pretend to know what _this_ is.

But it's something.

* * *

Sam finds him halfway through mixing up the waffles.

“How y’feelin’, squirt?” Bobby ruffles the kid’s hair, determined to take advantage of the height difference while he can.

Sam blinks up at him, big and perplexed. “I couldn’t find Juliet,” he says.

“Whinin’ for her master, last I saw,” Bobby says, but Sam shakes his head.

“She’s not. I went looking.”

There’s something about his voice that makes Bobby put down the bowl of batter. If Dean’s done something to that damn dog, so help him—

Except Sam says:

“I found her. She’s in the basement. I . . . you better come see.”

Bobby doesn’t argue. It’s not that sort of morning. Instead, he just follows Sam downstairs. Into the panic room, in fact, and . . . yeah. That’d been one of his first clues, that maybe things were happening a little differently this time 'round. Because he hadn’t dug this thing out for a good decade yet, back Before. And yet, here it is. Almost like _someone_ forgot to check His set continuity, before pressing the reset button.

There’s a body, lying in the middle of the floor. Somehow, Bobby isn’t surprised to see it. Nor to see Juliet, whining and pawing at the thing’s shoes.

There’s a note, sitting on the body’s chest. It’s written in the same handwriting as the label on Bobby’s VHS, and it reads:

_I’ll give you this one for free. Be more careful next time._

Bobby puts the note back, and ruffles his fingers through the . . . fur at Juliet’s scruff. “C’mon, mutt,” he says. “He’ll be up and grouching before you know it.”

* * *

This, as it turns out, is prophetic; Bobby hears the huffing gowls halfway through putting out Sam’s food. Figuring his own breakfast can wait, Bobby turns off the waffle iron and goes to investigate.

“Don’t pick at ‘em, they’ll get infected.”

“Sure about that, darling?”

Crowley’s voice is . . . strange. Deeper, and echoing in a way that’s definitely not human. But the accent’s the same, and so is the attitude.

Bobby snaps on the lights and, after a moment, pulls open the curtains. They’re secluded enough out here, and demons don’t burn up in sunlight, although Crowley does groan and hold up a claw to shield his eyes.

“Y’don’t even have pupils, you big princess,” Bobby grumbles.

Crowley is sitting on the remains of the sofa, hunched over so he doesn’t put his horns through the ceiling. Near as Bobby can read that inhuman face, he’d say the expression was “guarded.”

“Gimme a look,” he says, gesturing at Crowley’s wound. “See how you’re healin’ up. How’re you feeling?”

“Surprisingly alive.” Crowley shifts slightly, allowing Bobby to get close to the rough line of stitches in his side.

They look . . . okay. Maybe. Bobby isn’t exactly an expert on demon healing; he’s pulled plenty apart, not so much put them back together again, let alone sans meatsuit. But the wound doesn’t have the rotting, black edge it did last night, and seem’s to’ve scabbed over. Crowley even opens his lower mouth, with some prompting, to let Bobby check inside. _This_ thing is, he has to admit, capital-w Weird. Mostly because, apparently, Crowley is bigger on the inside; his lower teeth part into a gaping maw that would barely fit inside his body, and there’s a whole throat still beyond that. Bobby has no idea where the rest goes, but suspects the answer is both, a) disgusting, and b) something relating to the function of Hell he, quite frankly, doesn’t need to know about.

He didn’t stitch the exit wound, mostly because it would've been too awkward, but also because it hadn't looked so bad as outside. The inside of Crowley’s lower mouth glows just like his talking one, and Bobby inspects the healing wounds in the hellfire gloom.

“Think you're healing up fine,” he says eventually, pulling himself out of the hot, wet maw. When he's clear, Crowley closes it with a teeth-clacking snap.

“That your expert opinion, Doctor?”

Bobby shrugs, patting Crowley on one of his strange, chitinous “knees.”

“Whatever shit Azazel put in you,” he says, “looks gone. Still a big damn hole in your belly, but you ain't rotting from the inside, near as I can see. And I'm guessing flesh wounds don't bother demons too much.” He thinks of the piercings through Crowley's wrists, the ones that hold his bracers in place.

Crowley gives a noncommittal sort of shrug, which Bobby takes as an affirmative. The demon is still watching him, careful and guarded. Unsure, despite his flippant words. Bobby wonders if Crowley's ever spent so much time topside, in front of a mortal no less, without the safety of a meatsuit to hide behind.

Which reminds him:

“If you're up to taking a walk, there's somethin’ in the basement you might wanna see.”

Crowley's eyes narrow at this, instantly suspicious, and he rears back a little as if expecting a fight. Bobby just laughs, shaking his head and giving Crowley a good-natured thump on the arm.

“It ain't a trap, you paranoid bastard. Our . . . mutual friend left you somethin’, and I'm too old ‘n’ lazy to drag it all the way up.”

Bobby can see the realisation dawn on Crowley's face, all four eyes going very wide. “ . . . oh,” is all he says, before looking towards the hallway.

Bobby gives him one last pat. “Go get dressed. Then come back up. I'm makin’ waffles.” He thinks for a moment. “And, uh. Watch out for Dean. He's still . . . processin’.”

“Er, yes. Right. Jolly good.” Crowley shoots one last look at Bobby, claw half-lifting as if to touch. Then he seems to remember himself, and smokes out.

There's no way, of course, that a twelve-foot demon—in height and width—could walk through Bobby’s house. But a long plume of red smoke can, and Bobby watches Crowley curl out and disappear, literally through the floor. He can't decide whether to find it strange or not, so gives up, and goes to finish breakfast.

* * *

Crowley reappears about fifteen minutes later; literally reappears, right in the middle of the kitchen. Bobby’s about to ask what the (a-har) Hell took him so long—honestly, he'd been beginning to think the demon had just bailed—when he notices the little cardboard holder, filled with four takeaway coffee cups, in the demon’s hand.

“I refuse to drink that swill you Yanks call ‘coffee,’” he says, handing Bobby a cup.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.” Bobby takes the cup, and kisses Crowley on the fresh new human cheek while he's at it. Said human looks and feels and tastes and smells exactly like Crowley's old meatsuit. Even the actual suit looks the same. Another thing Bobby decides not to think about, to preserve whatever little’s left of his sanity.“There's waffles and bacon,” he says instead, examining the cup in his hand. There's a logo on the side. Italian, maybe, and stamped on cheaply. When Bobby takes a sip, the brew inside is pure, fresh espresso and . . . yeah, okay. No way Crowley got that local. Or in the country.

Two of the cups are hot cocoa, “Made with real melted chocolate,” as per Crowley’s explanation to Sam. Dean is still sulking upstairs so Bobby hands Sam a plate of food and shoos him out of the kitchen, off to feed his brother. Before Sam leaves, he gives Crowley one big, heartfelt hug.

“Thank you, Uncle Rick. For Bobby. And . . . and for Mom.”

Crowley's expression makes Bobby search his pockets, looking for his phone, before remembering that tech’s a good decade and change away.

“Er, yes.” Crowley pats Sam on the shoulder, adorably awkward.

Bobby finishes plating up the last two serves of breakfast, then turns to hand one to Crowley. The demon takes it almost unconsciously, still looking pole-axed and staring at the fast retreating Sam. This, Bobby decides, was not how he expected to be spending the morning.

“How's the new ‘suit?’”

Crowley blinks, shaking himself as his gaze flicks between Bobby and the plate in his hand. “Suspiciously similar to the last one,” he says, voice aiming back at equilibrium and almost making it.

“Good. Gotta admit I'm a bit attached to it, weren't sure what I was gonna do if you had to . . . find another.” He gestures at Crowley with a piece of waffle, stabbed on the end of his fork. “Sit. Eat.”

“I really can't . . .” Said like a man trying to convince himself more than anyone.

“I didn't make that shit for it to get cold.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and . . . there. He's back. But he sits, and begins to genteelly slice a piece of bacon.

They eat in silence for a while, sitting just a blade’s edge shy of awkward. Elsewhere in the house, Bobby can hear the murmur of voices as Sam and Dean argue. About Crowley, most likely.

Thoughtful, Bobby takes a sip of coffee. It’s cooler than he’d usually serve it, and milkier, but despite that—or maybe because of it—it’s . . . perfect. Absolutely perfect. So he sighs, over-loud, and announces, “Damn good coffee.”

Crowley gives an affected little nonchalant gesture, as if Bobby’s opinion means nothing to him. “Little place in Sydney,” he says. “Thankfully still open.”

“Australia?” Bobby looks at the cup, turning it back and forth in his hands. Funny, he thinks. How “still” can means exactly the opposite of what it sounds.

“Mm.”

“Huh.”

Crowley is watching him, gauging his reaction. Bobby takes another sip of coffee. It really is very good.

“I dunno what the fuck I’m gonna tell John,” he says.

“About the coffee?”

Crowley’s smirking when Bobby fixes a flat stare his way. “About Azazel, idjit.”

“I suppose ‘nothing’ is out of the question?”

Bobby sighs, if only because the thought had already occurred to him. “Thought about it. But I ain’t gonna make the boys lie to their dad.” It’s the conclusion he’s come to.

Crowley makes a scrunched-up sort of face, as if he’s just remembering John Winchester’s existence. “I really do have to get back to Hell,” he says after a moment. “Lilith is . . . calling.”

“Because of . . .?”

“Mm.” Crowley gestures vaguely with his knife. “There’s no love lost between demons, but there are . . . power vacuums.”

“Gonna slot yourself into the boss’s old boots?”

Crowley tilts his head, considering. It’s an almost inhuman little gesture, Bobby thinks. Maybe the closest Crowley gets to letting the beast inside show itself.

“Does that bother you?”

Bobby shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, and means it. “Better you’n anyone else down there.”

“You know what they say about absolute power, darling.”

Bobby thinks of a tape, hidden away in the dark. “What’re you gonna tell her?”

“Lilith?”

“Yeah.”

Crowley considers this, chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of waffle and syrup. He eats them separately from the bacon. The sweet and the salty, each in their own place. “I think,” he says. “I’m going to tell her the truth. Or close enough. And I’m going to make it very, very convincing.”

“She’s trapped in Hell?”

“Mm.”

“Then I’ll ward up the panic room. Your convincing ain’t so convincing, that’s your plan B.”

Crowley cocks his head again, blinking. He doesn’t do it quite in synch, Bobby thinks. It’s one eye slightly before the other, like a frog. Funny, the little tells he can pick, now that he’s looking for them. Or maybe now that Crowley ain’t trying so hard to play human.

“Why?” Crowley eventually asks.

“We’re on the same side, so we work together. That’s how it goes.” Bobby explains it simple, not assuming it should be obvious. For a demon, he figures it probably ain't.

“You’re sure about that? The ‘being on the same side’ thing?”

Bobby shrugs. “You’re here, ain’t’cha? And just ‘cause I was dead, before, don’t mean I weren’t watchin’. And don’t mean I don’t know what you did, at the end. For the boys.”

Crowley winces, as if in pain. “Ah,” he says. “Unfortunate.”

Bobby laughs at that, honest and full. He reaches across the table, covering one of Crowley’s hands with his own. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell none.” The skin is warm and smooth beneath his fingers. After a moment, Crowley turns his hand over, fingers lacing with Bobby’s.

“I . . . ah,” he says. “This is . . .”

“A long way to India.” Bobby cuts him off, squeezing their hands. “I know. But that’s the way we’re headed. You wanna come along, we could use the help.” Bobby, John, and the boys. Rufus. Castiel. Ellen and Ash and Jo. So many pilgrims to collect along the road.

“I, er . . . I’ll consider it,” Crowley lies, maybe to himself most of all.

Bobby smiles, genuine and encouraging, and gives the hand beneath his another squeeze. Crowley isn't quite blushing—he has too much control over his meatsuit for that—but he looks . . . off balance. Not quite meeting Bobby’s eyes, even as he doesn't pull his hand away.

He really is very beautiful. Bobby hadn't been expecting that, maybe. Too used to dealing with an older meatsuit, handsome in its own way. But this younger version has its appeal as well, dark-haired and baby-faced. Bobby finds himself wondering if it has the same . . . accessories as the previous version. He'll certainly have to make some time to find out, once they're through this current crisis.

He must stare too long, too open, because Crowley stands quite abruptly, clearing his throat and straightening his already pristine tie. “Well, uh,” he says. “Lovely breakfast, but . . . must dash. Hell, and all.”

Bobby chuckles, rising as well. “Yeah,” he says, swooping in close to collect Crowley in his arms and kiss the bastard properly.

Crowley still kisses like his life depends on it which, Bobby supposes, it does. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the feel of soft lips against his, of warm hands sliding beneath his shirt. Of hitched breath and the rub of a thigh between his own.

He pulls back first. He's pretty sure Crowley would happily rut right here right now but, sadly, with the boys roaming loose that ain't gonna be happening. Instead, Bobby runs a thumb across damp pink lips.

“Do what you need to do,” he says. “But be careful. And come back safe.”

“I . . .” Crowley starts. “Er, yes. Right.”

Bobby won't lie; he'll never get tired of making the once and future king of Hell speechless. He kisses Crowley one last time, just briefly, then steps back. Crowley makes another little half-motion with his hand, like he's about to reach back. Then he stops himself, nods once, and is gone.

Bobby just sighs, and goes to clean up the dishes.

* * *

Sam had been back from Hell for three hours when Bobby found him in the basement, curled into a ball between a broken old armchair and a mostly empty wine rack that had, once upon a time, been Karen’s.

Sam had been cleaned up and fed, and had already given out a version of his experiences. Bobby could feel in his bones it wasn't the whole story, if only because Sam was too young to tell much of a convincing lie. Normally, the lying had been Dean’s job.

Bobby’d sat across from Sam in the dust and the gloom, the only light coming from a single bare bulb overhead, flickering and half-dead. It made Sam’s eyes seem to glisten, wet and too-large, from behind his folded-up knees.

Bobby had given it a few minutes, to see if the kid would come out with it on his own. Then, when that didn't happen:

“I know you ain't tellin’ me the whole truth,” he’d said. “About what happened.”

Sam had winced, eyes dropping in guilt. “I told you,” he’d mumbled. “I don't really remember it.”

“I know,” Bobby had said, because he figured that was at least partly true. “It messes with your head, Hell. Like a dream.” Then, at Sam’s scowl: “Got stuck there once, for a little while. Didn't have it so bad as most, but it is what it is.”

More silence, and Bobby had waited it out, trusting his patience versus that of a kid’s. Eventually, Sam had said, voice barely more than a whisper:

“He'd been so mad. At . . . at the other demon. He killed it. Said if anyone else knew I was there, he'd have to kill them, too.”

Bobby hadn't had to ask who Sam was talking about. “And did they?” If so, Crowley would have to get in line.

But Sam had just shaken his head. Bobby hadn't been sure whether to feel relieved or cheated.

Instead, he'd asked:

“What happened then?”

A shrug. “He told me about . . . about”—voiced pitched even lower—” _him_. How . . . how _he'd_ want something from me, and I should never, ever give it.”

That, Bobby will kill Crowley for. Just a little bit. Damn kid shouldn't have had to've found that out like he had. _Damnit, Rick, you oblivious sunovabitch . . ._

“Hopefully it won't ever come to that”—they'd already gone over the Cage—”but if it does, that's good advice.”

“From a _demon_.” Sam had scrunched up his face, disbelieving, and Bobby had laughed.

“And then?”

“I . . . He gave me some stuff to clean up. Water. Then . . . then he brought me back here.”

No mention of Juliet. Bobby had decided not to press it, though he'd felt the hellhound’s presence earlier and heard her curious whine when he'd called her name.

And then, Sam had asked:

“Do . . . do you ever think a demon could be . . . good?” He'd bitten his lip as soon as the words were out, as if regretting speaking them aloud.

Bobby had looked at Sam, head tilted, and said:

“Now. What would make you ask a question like that?”

Sam had shrugged, looked away, affected disinterest. “Dunno. Don't matter.”

Bobby had waited it out. Five seconds, six. Seven . . .

“‘S just . . . Dad says they're evil. Demons. You can't trust ‘em. But . . . but _he_ —” He’d bitten his lip, looking away.

“‘He?’”

Very softly: “He ain't done nothin’. He _helped_ me. And you, and—” Cut off again.

“And?”

But Sam had just shaken his head. “Don't matter,” he’d repeated. “‘S dumb.”

_Aw, heck,_ Bobby had thought. _I'm gonna kill him. Arrogant sunovabitch._

Out loud, he'd said: “Sam. I know about Rick.” Sam's eyes had gotten very wide, gleaming moon-white rings. Bobby had continued: “I just wanna know how you know.”

“He . . . he talked the same. His voice sounded funny, like booming or whatever. But . . . but it was the same.”

_Goddamnit, Rick._

Bobby had sighed. “Rick don't know that I know. And you shouldn't let on you do, either. He . . .” Bobby had stopped, unsure. Then: “He's a work in progress. I ain't too sure what he’ll do, if he thinks his cover’s blown.”

A frown. “Are you— Why are you—?”

“Like you've seen. He hates Luficer, and he's powerful. We . . . we could use his help.” Bobby had paused. Then: “And . . . some other things, too. Things I can't tell ya, not yet. But Rick, I think he could be . . . somethin’ different. Not good, maybe, but . . .” He’d made a vague gesture, unsure. Sam had nodded.

“I don't . . . I don't trust him,” Bobby had continued. “Not quite, not yet. But . . . I want to.” He'd been surprised, even, how true that'd been, once he'd said it out loud. “But that means . . . We don't make excuses. He ever so much as looks at you sideways, or your brother, you tell me. Right? He's a tough bastard, but I can deal”—he’d winced at the word—”with him, if it comes down to it. I'm hopin’ it don't.”

Sam had nodded, thoughtful. “Do you think it'll . . . work? I've never heard of a demon being—” He’d waved his hand, an imitation of Bobby’s previous gesture.

“Read stories,” Bobby had said. “Old, old stories. Dunno if they're true.”

“Dean will freak.” Sam's nose had scrunched up in horror. “ _Dad_ will freak.”

Bobby had sighed. “Sam . . . I ain't gonna tell you to lie to your family, that ain't right.”

“Okay.” Too eager. Then: “But If they don't ask, it's not lying, right?”

“You're gonna grow up to be a great lawyer one day, you know that?”

Sam had just grinned.

After that, they'd gone upstairs, and Bobby had put on _Xi you ji_.

* * *

Bobby's working out the new warding on the panic room when he hears Sam’s shouted, “No!”

“The fuck?” Bobby asks no one in particular, dropping Crowley’s book—still reeking of blood and sulphur care of its previous home—and bounds out of the basement and up into the house, taking the stairs two and three at a time.

He doesn't have to look far. Sam is in the den, little fists balled in fury as he glares up at his smugly satisfied brother.

“—you didn't!” Sam is saying. “You promised you wouldn't! You _promised_!”

“I had to, Sammy. You're too little to get it. But you'll see. It's for your own good.”

“Ain't no one ever said those words and had ‘em be true, boy.”

Both boys jump at the sound of Bobby’s voice, spinning guiltily. “Bobby!” Sam blurts, at the same moment as Dean’s wheedled, “Sir!”

Bobby waves them both away, instead picking his way over the broken furniture to look through the window. He already knows the car he can hear is the Impala, but the masochist in him still has to watch as John fishtails it up the drive.

Both the boys are still talking, stumbling over each other in their desperate, said-he-wouldn'ts and had-to-do-its. Bobby ignores them, rubbing gun-rough fingers across the bridges of his nose and cursing the ironic symmetry of it all. Crowley has to deal with Lilith. Figures Bobby has to do John in turn.

John doesn't so much park the Impala as let it roll to a stop as he pitches himself from the driver’s seat. He lurches towards the house, tripping over his own feet, eyes wild and hair in greasy disarray. Bobby wonders how long John’s been driving, wonders just when Dean put in his call. Last night, maybe?

“Singer!” John roars, damn near loud enough to shake the windowpanes. “Singer, get out here damn you!”

Bobby sighs, pulling back from the window. When he turns, Dean blurts:

“I didn't tell him ‘bout— ‘bout Rick!”

It's a peace offering, Bobby supposes, and he decides to take it, nodding once as he goes to open the door before John kicks it down.

“Is it true? Is it fucking true?”

John smells as bad as he looks, breath like paint thinner, hands fisted in Bobby’s shirt the second he can reach. “Hello to you too, John,” Bobby says. He can practically feel Rick’s approving smirk at the sass.

“Damnit, Singer!” John shakes him, frantic, nearly lifting Bobby from the floor in his panic. “Did you—? Yellow Eyes . . . Dean said—?”

Bobby can't be angry, not really. Not over this. John’s done terrible things in the name of vengeance—put his boys through so much—and that Bobby will never forgive. But, mostly, what Bobby feels for this creature before him, burnt-out and wasted and lost, is pity.

He peels John’s fingers out of his shirt, firm but gentle. “Azazel,” he says, because it seems important to name the bastard. Not to let him hide behind a title. “And yeah. Dean shot ‘im, right between the eyes.”

John sags, stumbling against the wall, eyes glazing and focusing on nothing. Bobby catches him, leads him into the den, step after stumbling step.

“Are you— you sure it was—?”

“We’re sure. It was him.”

“Sure it's _dead_ ,” John corrects. “You didn't . . . didn't just shoot some poor schmuck’s meatsuit . . .?”

The sofa has not, surprisingly, repaired itself in the five minutes since Bobby last saw it. He dumps John in the armchair instead, hoping it doesn't still reek too much like brimstone.

“Clocked ‘im with Rick’s gun,” he says, carefully. John knows about the Colt, has seen it used before. Maybe not what it is, exactly, but he knows what it can do.

John snorts, head in hand. “Figures,” he mutters. “A decade’a my goddamn life, and Yellow Eyes gets done over by your little faggot boytoy’s toy.”

There's a retort on Bobby’s tongue but he bites it back. So long as John thinks the things he thinks about Rick, he's not thinking the things he shouldn't be about Crowley.

“It was Dean pullin’ the trigger,” Bobby says instead.

The boy in question shifts, floorboards squeaking, and John looks up, blinking like he's only just realised his children are there.

“That true, boy?” he says. “You do a man’s duty, avengin’ your Mom?”

Bobby rolls his eyes, but Dean just swallows and nods. “Yes, sir.”

John nods. “Good,” he says. “That's . . . good. That it was one of us.” He doesn't sound like he thinks it's good, though. He sounds like he resents it wasn't him, and he can't even meet Dean’s eyes while he chokes out the lie. Dean sees it too, shoulders sagging, just a little bit. Just enough to let the pride slough off him.

Jesus, but John’s an asshole. Funny, Bobby had forgotten just how much he’d hated the bastard.

“What . . . what now?” John asks, apparently as indifferent to his son’s pain as he's always been, too damn wrapped up in his own.

Bobby shrugs. “Hell’ll take a while to figure itself out in Azazel’s wake,” he says, before he's really thought about it. “But they'll be back, and I suspect they ain't gonna be happy someone took out one’a their Princes. We got some time before they move, but maybe not much. And if Lilith decides to move up the calendar on the Seals . . .” Now there's something Bobby’s been trying not to think about. The boys are still too young, surely? But does that just mean she'll try something else in the meantime?

Probably exactly the things Crowley was trying to figure out, while the rest of them stood around in Bobby’s den, nursing one man’s shattered little ego.

Speaking of. John is looking at him . . . very strangely.

“The hell,” he says, “you talking about, Singer?”

_Shit._

* * *

They spin John a story, the boys providing backup and Bobby tossing out Rick’s name like it's Christmas leftovers in February. Not as a demon, but as the son of a witch; a plausible enough excuse for why he'd know so much about the workings of Hell, so long as no one examines the (ironically true-ish) story too closely. John doesn't, though he doesn't like it, either. Except he doesn't like Rick in general and it's hard to say whether that's because of the gay thing or the witch thing or just the plain ol’ Rick thing, because God only knows Rick’s never needed help pissing people off, no matter what he happens to be calling himself.

Either way, it probably doesn’t matter. John is nearly dead on his feet and unhappily sober to boot, and the likelihood he’ll remember much of any of this tomorrow is negligible. Bobby cements the deal by handing him a bottle of rotgut—the old stuff, not the half-decent single malts Crowley has taken to hiding around the place—and booting him to the spare room to drink himself into a weepy, sleepy stupor.

Crowley still isn’t back and the panic room isn’t going to ward itself, so once John is placated and well on his way to unconsciousness, Bobby heads down to finish off _that_ little chore, just in case. The last thing he needs now is the armies of Hell catching him unprepared.

He’s down there maybe ten minutes, eyes squinting at the loopy, probably blood-scribed chickenscratch in Crowley’s book, when the creaky stair announces the arrival of a visitor.

“Hey. You . . . you putting up wards?” Dean. Standing in the doorway to the panic room, eyes red-rimmed and miserable, sneaker scuffing the paint-and-chalk-stained cement.

“Yup.” Bobby gestures to the stack of books and assorted equipment, laid out around him in a haphazard circle.

Dean nods, taking a tentative step into the room. “I, um. I can help?”

“Nope.”

“I can! I know how to . . . to do ward stuff!”

“I know you do,” Bobby says. “It ain’t about that.” He looks at Dean, long and hard, until the boy’s eyes widen and the color rises in his cheeks. Anger or embarrassment, or probably both. Bobby remembers how it was at that age. Just.

“You don’t trust me.”

“Not with this.”

“Because of . . . because of that _thing_!”

“I woke up to you pointin’ a shotgun at ‘that thing’”—Bobby makes air quotes—“not a day after he saved my goddamn life. I ain’t forgotten that, not yet. And this”—he gestures to the room—“is important. Rick’s in a dangerous position cause’a what he did for us. If it goes bad, he’ll need a place he can go.”

“Why here? Why _him_? I don’t—” Dean bites his lip, looking away, hands curling into and out of fists. “What about Mrs. Singer?” he blurts.

“What?”

“You . . . you were married!”

It takes Bobby a moment, but the logic clicks eventually. Probably faster than it would’ve, if John weren’t passed out somewhere up above.

“Dean,” he says, folding his book in his lap. “I love Karen. I think about her every damn day, even now. But she’s dead. She’s been dead for— for a long time. And none of this—not Rick, not Azazel, not the goddamn Lord Himself—is gonna change that. And I ain’t gonna live my whole damn life like it will.”

“But Dad—”

“Dean, I ain’t John. I thought you of all people would’ve worked that out by now.” Probably more than he should’ve said. For all his problems with John, Bobby tries to keep his opinions away from the boys. They don’t need him poisoning them against their father; like Rick, John’s good enough at that on his own.

“Why . . . why didn’t you ever try and find the demon?” Dean says, after a moment. “The one who . . . y’know. With Mrs. Singer?”

Bobby huffs, not quite a laugh. “Y’know Rick asked me the same thing?”

“Oh.” A pause. Then, incredulous: “Really?”

“Yup. And I’ll tell you what I told him; ‘cause it wouldn’t do squat. So I track that bastard down, and I smoke it. So what? Don’t change what happened, and there’s a million other slimy bastards to take its place. And in the meantime, what’ve I lost? Dedicating my life to something like that?”

“But . . . you’re a hunter.”

“That’s different. I hunt shit so no other schmucks have to go through what I did. It ain’t about stopping the bastard that hurt _me_ ; it’s about makin’ sure no others hurt anyone else. Do you get the difference?” Definitely too much. Well, can’t take it back now.

“You . . . you think Dad’s wrong,” Dean says. Too quickly, maybe. Like it's something he's thought for a while, finally given an excuse to spew forth. “To’ve spent so long hunting Yellow Eyes.”

“Azazel,” Bobby says. “And, damnit, yes. Yes I do. What happened to Mary should never’ve happened. To anyone. But John . . . I ain’t him, but he ain’t me, either. When Karen died, I had nothing. No family, no kids. This life, doin’ what I do, it sucks. You know it does. But for someone like me, with nothing to loose . . .” He shrugs. “But you dad, he still had _you_. And he—” _Chose chasing something that didn’t matter rather than spending his life caring for the things that did,_ Bobby stops himself from saying. Too much, too raw.

Dean nods, sliding slowly down the wall as he digests Bobby’s words. “You . . . don’t like Dad much, do you?” he says, when he’s sitting on the cold concrete, knees pulled up under his chin.

“No,” Bobby says, because after that he figures he owes Dean the truth. “I don’t.”

“So why . . . why do you put up with him? Why do you—” Dean bites his lip, looking away.

“Put up with you?”

Dean flinches, huddling down further into himself. Small and vulnerable and sad. Shit.

“Dean, it’s your daddy I got problems with. I put up with him cause’a _you_. You and your brother. You . . .” He sighs, running a hand overhis head, trying to push up a cap he isn’t wearing. “You’re just goddamn kids. You deserve a place to _be_ kids. Have a home that ain’t a motel or the back of that goddamn car. Go to school. Have a _life_.” Dean opens his mouth, like he’s about to protest, but Bobby cuts him off. “You wanna be a hunter? Fine. But you _choose_ that life, when you’re ready. If you ever are. You don’t get it forced on you. Especially not now. God knows there’s plenty of time for that shit later. But _this_ shit, this being-a-kid shit, you only get one crack at, and it'll be gone before you realise.”

A pause. Dean’s posture has loosened a little, but he’s still scowling something fierce. Bobby gives him time, lets the words come out on their own. And when they do:

“Sammy . . . he said the— he said Rick told him Mom was a hunter. That her whole _family_ were hunters.”

“Yup,” Bobby says. “The Campbells.”

“You know them?”

“Not well. But there ain’t that many of us. Hunters, I mean. Word gets around.”

“Dad never told us that.”

“Don’t think he knew— knows, I mean. Mary, she wanted outta that life.”

“Why?”

Bobby sighs. “That . . . I ain’t got a good answer to that. Mary and John, there were other things going on, with . . . how they got together.”

“What?”

So much for being discreet. “The Campbells, they’re the hunters’ hunters, been in the business for generations. But your daddy’s daddy, he was a member of somethin’ else. Called themselves the Men of Letters. They did the research, the hunters did the killin’.”

“Dad never—”

“He don’t know. Your grandpa . . . there was an incident. Powerful demon got into the group and slaughtered the lot, your grandpa included. If he’d lived, John would’ve been initiated into the order when he’d come of age. You and Sam, too. That’s how it worked.”

“So Mom was . . . some, like, super-hunter, and Dad was supposed to be this Letters person?”

“Yup.”

“And . . . and Sammy is Luficer’s . . .?”

“True vessel,” Bobby says. “Angels, they don’t just take over anyone like demons do. They have ‘bloodlines.’ You get yours from John.” A pause. “He don’t know that, either.”

“How do _you_ —” Dean cuts himself off, mouth falling open. “Rick!” Said with every inch of teenage outrage.

Close enough. “Like I said, Rick hates Lucifer more’n anything. And he ain’t some pissant black-eyed piece of cannon fodder. Hell’s been plottin’ Lucifer’s return since the bastard was imprisoned. And you and Sammy . . . you’re the product of all’a that blood and scheming. But, Dean, you listen to me; that shit? It’s too much. Too much for _anyone_ , let alone a couple’a kids. And, Lord help me, but I will fight every last demon and every goddamn angel and everything in between to stop them so much as ruffling their hair on either’a you.”

And Dean . . . Dean looks stunned. It suddenly occurs to Bobby to wonder if he’s ever heard anyone say anything like that before. Say they’d fight Heaven and Hell and Earth combined on his behalf.

_Jesus, John. The kid should’ve gotten this from_ you _. Not a half-dead beat-up bastard drunk like me._

“You . . . you think Rick will help you,” Dean says, slowly, voice thick.

“Yeah.”

“But . . . he’s a _demon_. How do you know he isn’t . . . isn’t just playing you? How do you know anything he’s told you is even real? I just . . . For all you know, _he_ could’ve been the one who killed your lady!”

And that . . . Bobby has to laugh. “Dean,” he says. “Rick didn’t do shit to Karen. He ain’t even that sort of demon.” Then, at Dean’s quizzical look: “Red eyes. Rick’s a crossroads demon.”

“ . . . Oh.”

“It ain’t just that. I don’t know everything about Rick, and you’re right; he is a demon and he is dangerous, maybe more’n even you realize. But . . .” And here, Bobby grins, small and self-deprecating. “Lord help me, but I like ‘im. He’s an asshole, but he’s all right, when he wants to be. And he makes this miserable old bastard happy. When things go bad, even before that, I want him on our side.”

“You . . . love him?”

Bobby shrugs.

“That’s . . . weird.” A pause. “I mean, ‘cause he’s a demon. Not just the dude thing. Wait. Is he even a dude? They swap bodies, right, so—”

“Dean . . .”

“Right. Um. Sorry.”

Bobby sighs, tells himself it’s still the 90s and to give the kid some time. Time away from John, if nothing else.

After that, Dean falls silent. Processing, Bobby assumes, so he leaves the boy to it and goes back to carefully painting in the wards he’ll need to keep out all bar one of the legions of Hell.

* * *

It hadn't been a planned thing. With Rick. Not really, anyhow. Not beyond the fact the bastard’d been flirting since the moment he'd appeared, and that hunting had always got Bobby’s blood up, and that Rick wasn't half-bad looking. So they'd fucked in the grimy restroom of a shitty truckstop diner, dirt and dead ghoul still caked beneath Bobby’s fingernails.

It hadn't been anything like Bobby had imagined. Sweet, almost; laughing and pulling Rick into his lap as they'd roared away, feeling giddy from the weight of years, sloughing from his shoulders. He'd thought maybe it'd be a one-time thing. Just a bit of drunken fun after a hunt, nothing unusual in the business. ‘Cept Rick . . .

To Rick, it'd been serious.

Bobby knows the demon would go to his grave a third time rather than admit as much, maybe even to himself. But Bobby had seen the look in those stolen eyes—felt the gentle touch of Hell-stained fingers on his skin—as a beast born of pride and pain looked inside itself and found it was in love.

And Bobby . . . he hadn't been sure. Plenty of terrible things, done in the name of love. Plenty of souls damned to Hell for the same. But then Crowley had spared Bobby Azazel’s blow, had taken that poison into himself, not expecting to survive, and Bobby had thought again of that tape, hidden in the dark.

If a human soul could be made into a demon, could a demon in turn be made into . . . something else? And if so, what? And what price would Bobby have to pay to see it done?

* * *

John still hasn't surfaced by dinner time, so Bobby feeds the boys and helps them with their homework. He feels sore all over, but in the good way that comes after a day of honest work. First finishing off in the basement, then repairing the broken sofa. Even fielding calls from the boys’ school because, as it happens, it's apparently Wednesday, and they're missing class.

The afternoon is stripping cars with Dean and watching Sam play fetch with Juliet, chewed-up tennis ball seeming to float in midair as she dutifully brings it back to drop, covered in brimstone slobber, at Sam’s feet.

She seems happy enough. Bobby takes it as a sign that, whatever’s keeping Crowley, it isn't worth worrying about. At least, not too much.

Bobby makes lemon chicken meatballs for dinner, served with penne and shaved Reggiano, and a Greek salad on the side. He tells himself he isn't trying to prove anything—doesn’t feel the black hole weight of John pressing down on all sides—and almost manages to believe it.

By ten, the boys are either both asleep or heartily pretending to be. John is still hiding; Bobby thinks he can hear thumping and muffled sobs coming from the spare room, and after some thought decides to ignore both. Instead, he pours himself a generous few fingers of one of the good whiskeys, and flops down on the sofa. It sags and creaks more than it used to, but the frame’s wood and it nailed back together well enough.

Getting off his feet makes Bobby feel like a someone’s just turned down the gravity, and he lets out an exhale so heavy he could use it to counterweight a pickup. His eyes fall shut without his conscious control, and he's just enjoying the first burn of the Laphroaig when the sofa dips beside him.

“Tssch. You _repaired_ this awful old thing? Here I thought I was giving you an excuse for something less . . . Al Bundy.”

Bobby huffs, the last of the tension melting from his Weary bones at the sound of Rick’s hellfire-crackle voice.

“We ain't all made’a money.” He lifts his feet up as he says it, swinging to deposit them in Rick’s lap.

“I know for a fact you aren't nearly as impoverished as your dreadful taste in attire would make it seem.”

This, as it happens, is true; there's far more money in the scrap business than Bobby has things to spend it on. “Gotta save up,” he says. “Put the boys through college.”

No snappy comeback to that, and when Bobby looks, he finds Rick regarding him with that odd, head-tilted squint.

“What?”

“Nothing, luv.” Said with just slightly too long a pause, but also accompanied by Rick’s fingers digging into the arch of Bobby’s foot. It's a blatant distraction, but Bobby takes it, head falling back against the armrest and groaning in a way he knows goes straight to Rick’s dick.

“How was Hell?”

“Tedious.”

“But Lilith . . .?”

Rick shrugs, fingers moving onto Bobby’s right foot, warm and strong and working out more tension than (a-har) soles really had a right to have. “As planned, I told her the truth; that I've got you convinced I'm working with you against ‘our Dark Father.’”

Bobby thinks of a tape, hidden away in the dark, and nods. “And Azazel?”

“See above strategy. Azazel made a bad power play and lost. If you're expecting more than that, darling, I will remind you this is _Hell_. In situations like these, the outcomes are used to justify the results, as it were.”

Meaning if Azazel played his hand and was killed as a result, then it was a deserved punishment for not being strong enough to live. Even between demons, the callousness makes Bobby’s skin crawl.

“Besides,” Rick continues, “I see you've been dealing with your own . . . visitor.”

“Dean called ‘im,” Bobby explains, letting the exhaustion bleed into his voice.

“He knows?”

“‘Bout Azazel, yeah. Not about you.”

“I . . . see.” Rick’s fingers have moved up from Bobby’s feet to his calves. The bliss makes Heaven seem Hellish in comparison.

“I don't—” Bobby starts, then stops himself, throat working as it chokes over the words he thinks he shouldn't say.

“Mm?”

To Hell with it. If he can't confess to a demon, who can he confess to?

“John, he asked me what was next.”

“After Azazel?”

“It's his whole damn life, Rick. I don't— He died, chasing that bastard. Last time round, I mean.”

“Mm. But not this time.”

Bobby shakes his head. “And I just . . . I had it all worked out, y’know? With the boys. Was ready to . . . to do right by ‘em.” Then, at Rick’s quizzical look: “Was before your time, I guess. But . . . you know John, now. And before . . . He's a right bastard. I chased him outta my goddamn house, told him I'd shoot him if I ever saw him again. And John, damn him. I never did. The boys, neither. Not until he was gone and they were grown.”

“Ah,” says Crowley; and it is Crowley, that professional purveyor of sin and desire. “You regret the lost time.”

“I shouldn't— I took it out on them, too. They didn't deserve that. I swore I wouldn't make the same mistake, this time. But now Azazel's dust and smoke and John . . . I keep thinkin’ . . . What if he wants them back?”

“Mm. He is their biological father.”

“Don't I fuckin’ know it,” Bobby growls, throwing back the last of his whiskey.

“It shouldn't be too difficult,” Crowley says. “The man's barely stable as it is, it would be simple to—”

“No!” Bobby pushes himself upright, staring Crowley down, cutting off whatever godawful thing he was about to suggest. Bobby knows the demon doesn't get it, he _knows_ that. But he thinks Crowley—thinks Rick—gets him. “Damnit, Rick. That ain't what I mean.”

“Just trying to help, darling.” Huffy. _Damnit, Rick._

Bobby sits up proper, lacing his fingers with Rick’s, pressing their sides together. Trying to use the contact to remind Rick—remind Crowley—of something human. Something warm and compassionate. “I know,” he says. “I know you are. But this . . . I can't do this like that. I _won't_ do it. Not to the boys.”

“Then you risk losing them.”

Bobby sighs. “I know.”

A pause. Then, oddly delicate for Rick: “You, ah . . . you know he has a little, shall we say, ‘side project’ . . .?”

“Tryin’ not to think about that, to be honest.” Adam would be how old now? Not very, but definitely something more than nothing at all. “Reckon Sam’d survive knowin’ it. Not sure about Dean.” It'd been a shit enough thing to learn as a man, with John already years in the ground. For Dean to find out _now_ . . .

He will, Bobby realises. One way or another, even if Bobby has to tell Dean the truth himself. He's not going to let John get away with doing that to his boys, not again.

Out loud, he says:

“Thought it's be easier, you know? Second time around. But it ain't. All it means is second-guessin’ yourself into a whole buncha new disasters.”

“Having second thoughts about Azazel, darling?” And, funny. Because Rick definitely said Azazel, but what Bobby’s sure he wanted to say was “me.” Lucky for him, the answer to both is the same.

It's easier than it should be, to turn Rick’s head and kiss him. Proper-like, hot and deep with wind-rough lips—Rick’s are chapstick-smooth, because of course they are—and press him back against the couch. Rick melts into it easy like he always does, ever since that first, desperate time; hands coming up to slide beneath Bobby’s t-shirt, warm and strong against the skin of his back.

When Rick is kiss-blissed and panting, Bobby draws back just enough to whisper the answer to his previous question (“Not for a single goddamn moment.”), then bite down into the soft part of Rick’s earlobe. Rick’s whole body shudders with it, moaning as he presses his fast-hardening dick against Bobby’s thigh, shameless and wanting.

“I’m gonna need a favour, real soon.”

“Anything, darling.”

“Gonna get you to work your mojo to soundproof the boys’ room. Then I'm gonna fuck you ‘til the bedframe cracks.”

Rick’s eyes flash crimson, just one heartbeat, before he slams down the lids and rolls his head back, groaning. “Far be it for me to dissuade you, but aren't you forgetting—?”

“Nope.” Maybe if he keeps that sumbitch up all night, John’ll take the hint and get himself gone.

“How delightfully wicked.” Rick doesn't have fangs when he grins, not in his meatsuit, but damn if he doesn't look like he should.

“Yeah, well. Guess you must be rubbing off on me.”

“Do not at all mind if I do,” Rick says, and snaps his fingers.

**Author's Note:**

>  _You've done it all, you've broken every code_  
>  _And pulled the rebel to the floor_  
>  _You spoilt the game,[no matter what you say](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5yLSEerKqqE)._


End file.
